Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/94

—But there was silence: for no sceptred hand
Receiv'd the challenge.
                                 From the misty deep
Rise, Island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life;
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb;
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness
Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with Nature's tears
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle at Ajacio, turn'd away,
And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear,
And rude Helena sick at heart, and grey
'Neath the Pacific's smiting, bade the moon
With silent finger, point the traveler's gaze
To an unhonor'd tomb.
                                   Then Earth arose,
That blind, old Empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question, "who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph?" as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, "none."